


To Grow a World

by Control_Room



Series: The Big Picture [3]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Art, Contemplation, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Growth, Illustrated, Personal Growth, Platonic Love, Uncle-Niece Relationship, demonth, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: Joey grew a lot.He didn't want to.Not at first, at least.





	To Grow a World

Joey was supposed to be an average height.

Supposed to.

No stretched limbs, no gawks and stares, no aches.

Looking up at the doorpost he bashed his head on, Johan wondered when it had happened. When had he changed? When had he grown?

He knew when.

Joey sighed as he plucked himself off the floor, making sure to duck under the arch this time.

When he was young, around four years after his father’s murder, he complained to his mother about pains in his legs and arms.

Joey nodded to Henry as he passed the short man in the hall.

The doctors said nothing was wrong, that he was a growing boy.

Norman waved him over in the projection booth, and he slowly made his way up.

After the abnormal growth spurts began, they weighed him. Too light. They put him on a diet.

Sammy smiled up at the two in the booth as he started the band into a rapid tempo.

Growing too fast, losing weight too quickly. The doctors found his muscle mass decreasing at the same rate he was growing.

Rapid muscle loss.

Growing to repair it, only making it worse.

He sighed.

“You alright there, Joey?” Norman asked him, the tall man, mind you, an average tall, looking at him with concern and a light smile. Johan nodded and returned his focus to the band.

No need to worry about old pains and past problems.

He was done growing.

Or, so he thought.

The chains on his wrists and ankles dug into his skin, black ink seeping from the crevices and gaps in the flesh. Pain spasmed with every small motion. There was no escape from the agony.

This happened every time.

The chains tugged on him, rearranging his limbs to a more thin and emaciated form, tearing his head from his neck, inflamed his hands, seeped into his legs, twisting his body to match his mind, a monster, a mockery of humanity, a demon in dripping, tight skin.

He sought a doctor, the short doctor with locks of gold, with words of gold, with skin of gold, the Midas of their world, the brilliant and trapped doctor, and he sought him out to heal him, or for him to end him. 

When he finally had him where he needed him, he would show him his pain.

Oh, the pain, the pain of growing, the pain of stretching out of the form you were grown into, the pain of not being who you were supposed to be. 

The reel, the reel, its length always the same, it was not the key, it was a clue.

A mere clue.

But he, the doctor, Henry, good, kind, soft Henry, he used it as a weapon.

He healed him by ending him, every time.

Pain always shockwaved through the demon as he touched the angel, haloed in the words The End, it always did, and he felt his growth spread through the entire studio, the light of his soul fragmenting and shattering out. 

The pain always grew exponentially, until he could not take it anymore. 

He struggled to, he tried, he desperately tried to, but he never could.

The End was growing to be too painful.

It always was.

And Joey always, painfully, with a smile growing on his face from the doctor’s mercy, would face him with shame and tears, and begin again.

And again.

He never could repair his mistakes.

He prayed Henry did not remember.

Joey never got to grow up.

He was a young man in an old body.

He was not wise with age, he was not refined with experience, no, he was a frightened, meek, small soul. His heart grew for everyone, and his soul split with every one he touched. 

His tears grew.

His fears grew.

His pains grew.

His worry grew.

His hands grew.

His limbs grew.

He had no control, not over anything.

He struggled to hold himself back.

Joey did not want to grow. Not ever.

He struggled to keep himself small.

And still, he grew.

He grew old and vast, an entire universe in his hands, in his large, weary hands, and big bulbous tears filling the oceans, eyes bright as a sun and moon, breath of airs and currents. 

And he grew up.

No longer did he hold onto his mistakes, no longer did he hold himself back.

He let go, and let his limbs free of his mind. The end no longer scared him.

He would reach it when he would finish his story.

It was only a beginning, and he would grow.

One last time, one last chase, and he grew a world.

He grew plants and trees and buildings and lakes and rivers and mountains and caverns and seas and skies and laws and forces, and he grew.

It was not all in his hands, but he could grow.

So Joey did.

Henry, the good doctor, noted it softly, with words of encouragement in gold, with kindness and understanding, and cultivated the world alongside him.

Birds, bees, centipedes, lions and tigers and bears, wise old owls, spiders and pigs and horses, snails and butterflies, all grew under their steady, loving, and caring hands.

Cities emerged and rules formed, rocks pressed together and waters rained and evaporated, growing in land and sky.

The moon waxed and waned.

Just as Joey did.

Growing was difficult at first, so hard, so painful, but then, it became easy, and then it became something enjoyable.

Johan promised to get himself a garden.

A rose garden.

To grow, and to grow along side it.

Growth did not have to be painful. It was hard work, and the true reward was the fruit at the end.

He invited his friends and family, he grew and changed and, eventually, even forgot how tall he was. It was all part of growing, he decided. No need to dwell on it. 

As he placed little Linda on his shoulders, she asked him, “Will I be as tall as you?”

Joey laughed, and then, with a small smile that grew, replied, “If you try to.”

“How?” she asked with a pout he could hear. “I can’t just magically grow overnight, you silly Papi Joey.”

“Grow a tree,” he answered after a moment. “Then make stilts.”


End file.
